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“Amazing,” she said, shivering.
“Don’t worry. There’s a modern wing that’s a little more livable. This way.”
It was funny, she thought. For all her life, since her mother had read her fairy tales as a child, Tess had dreamed of castles. As a student, she’d pasted pictures of famous castles on the cover of her writing notebooks. From a distance, the castle of Gioreale had indeed looked majestic and awe-inspiring.
As she walked through the windowless hallways, she was forced to face the hard truth that old castles were indeed dark, cold and uncomfortable inside. Sometimes, it seemed, reality was not nearly as good as the fantasy.
But sometimes... Tess looked at Stefano’s broad shoulders as he walked ahead of her, carrying their luggage. Sometimes it was even better.
“In here,” Stefano said, pushing a thick oak door open. Following him, she gasped.
They were in a traditional great hall, with a fireplace as tall as Stefano. The high ceiling had exposed beams and was painted with old family crests and insignias. There were windows, and the furniture looked comfortable and new. Well, comparatively new. Golden light flooded in from lead-paned windows overlooking the cloistered courtyard.
“The modern wing,” he said.
“Modern?” she said faintly.
“Sí.” He grinned. “It’s only three hundred years old.”
“Only!”
Setting down their luggage, Stefano looked at the crackling fire in the fireplace. “It’s strange we haven’t seen any of the staff. Maybe they’re in the kitchen.”
With Esme in her arms, Tess followed him down a different hallway, then another. Finally he pushed open a door. Inside was a gleaming kitchen—far more modern than three hundred years old—filled with people. They were all bustling about, preparing food.
A woman gave a shocked cry as a dish shattered against the tile floor.
A short white-haired woman pushed through the crowded kitchen. Her wrinkled face lit up as she stared up at Stefano in shock. With a cry, she threw her arms around him. Tenderly he hugged her back, speaking in rapid Italian.
Stefano finally pulled away, looking a little sheepish, but happy for all that. “Tess, I’d like you to meet Gerlanda, my old nanny. She’s now housekeeper here.” He looked down at the white-haired woman, now wiping her tears with an apron. “Gerlanda, I’d like you to meet my bride from America, Tess, and our daughter, Esme.”
The elderly woman’s eyes went wide, and then she gave a joyful cry. Turning back to the others, she said a few quick words in a strange dialect of Italian—Sicilian?—and all the others began to exclaim joyfully as well. Tess found herself surrounded by smiling people, all patting her shoulder and stroking the baby’s head, welcoming her in English, in Italian or just by the warmth on their faces.
“Thank you, thank you.” Gerlanda shook her hand joyfully at Tess. “For bringing him here.” Tears were streaking her kind face. “Welcome, my princess.”
Awed by all the raucous, noisy delight now filling the gleaming kitchen, Tess turned to look at her husband.
They all hated my father, he’d said. I doubt they’ll be glad to see me.
From the happy shouts and tears, she saw he’d been completely wrong.
“What are you all doing here?” Stefano said, looking at the platters of food being assembled on the marble counter. “Is there a party?”
The others burst into laughter and a cacophony of Italian and Sicilian.
“The festival of harvest,” one of them explained, glancing in Tess’s direction. She realized they were speaking in English so she’d understand and was touched at their kindness.
“It will be our biggest one ever, since we also celebrate the success of the winery.”
“It’s doing well?” Stefano sounded mystified. The people around him laughed, their faces in broad smiles.
“Our Moscato—it just got the top rating from a famous wine critic.”
“The bottle price, it will go very high.”
“Extremely high.”
“More tourists will come to Gioreale. More hotels to open, more restaurants, more everything,” another said happily.
